Falak Bilal
Srinagar, Apr 18: In the narrow lanes of Noorbagh, where the rhythmic pull of needles once echoed from every home, a quiet stillness has replaced a vibrant past. The centuries-old craft of aari embroidery—once the backbone of this locality’s identity—is now hanging by a thread.
“There was a time when you couldn’t walk through Noorbagh without hearing the constant hum of embroidery,” Nabi recalls, his eyes fixed on the intricate pattern he’s stitching. “Every household was involved. It wasn’t just work—it was our way of life.”
Where dozens of workshops once thrived, only one remains in the area, employing just four to five artisans. The decline has been gradual but relentless, driven by economic pressures, changing markets, and the rise of mechanized alternatives.
“In earlier days, this workshop alone had 20 to 30 workers,” Nabi says. “We worked together, shared meals, shared stories. Now, it’s just a few of us trying to keep something alive that the world seems to have forgotten.”
Aari embroidery, known for its fine needlework and elaborate floral motifs, requires patience, skill, and time—qualities that are increasingly undervalued in today’s fast-paced, cost-driven market. Machine-made designs, often produced in bulk outside the Valley, have flooded the market, offering cheaper and faster alternatives.
“The machines have changed everything,” Nabi says bluntly. “They can do in hours what takes us days. And customers, understandably, go for what’s cheaper.”
But the cost of that choice, he argues, is cultural erosion.
“What we make is not just cloth—it’s art, it’s heritage,” he says. “Each piece carries a part of our identity. Machines cannot replicate that soul.”
For younger generations, however, the equation is simple: survival over sentiment.
With daily earnings from hand embroidery often not exceeding ₹150, compared to significantly higher wages in other trades or mechanized work, many young people are choosing different paths.
“How can I ask my son to sit here all day for so little?” Nabi asks, a hint of resignation in his voice. “If this craft provided a stable livelihood, things would be different. But it doesn’t anymore.”
Local observers note that the decline of aari work is not just an economic issue but also a reflection of shifting aspirations. Education, urban migration, and exposure to new opportunities have widened horizons, leaving traditional crafts struggling to compete.
Yet, for those who remain, the work continues—not out of necessity alone, but out of a deep-rooted connection to the craft.
Another artisan in the workshop, who has been working alongside Nabi for decades, adds quietly, “We know this may not last much longer. But as long as we are here, we will keep doing what we know best.”
There is little institutional support, artisans say, to revive or sustain the craft. Occasional exhibitions and government schemes have done little to address the core issue of low wages and market access.
Experts suggest that without meaningful intervention—such as fair pricing, design innovation, and stronger market linkages—traditional crafts like aari embroidery may soon exist only in archives and museums.
Back in the workshop, Nabi ties off a thread and examines his work with quiet satisfaction. Despite everything, his hands remain steady, his craftsmanship undiminished. But when asked about the future, his expression changes.
“This art will survive only as long as we do,” he says softly. “After us, I don’t think there will be anyone left to carry it forward.”
In Noorbagh, the silence grows deeper with each passing day—marking not just the loss of a livelihood, but the fading of a cultural legacy woven over generations.
